


To Taste

by enthusiasmgirl



Series: The Five Senses [5]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blindness, Child Abuse, Disability, Gen, Puberty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 05:45:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3966637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthusiasmgirl/pseuds/enthusiasmgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt's sense of taste is very sensitive, which is sometimes a good thing and sometimes awful. But it means that no matter what, flavours tend to linger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The New Normal

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, this is part of a series but that series does not have to be read in order.
> 
> And I apologize to the people who want more Foggy. I want that too, but it just didn't make sense for this particular set of stories.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt's dad takes him to a ball game after his accident, but the experience leaves a bad taste in Matt's mouth.

Matt loved his dad. More than anything. And, after the accident, more than ever. But sometimes, when he was particularly low, Matt suspected that there was a possibility that his dad didn't feel the same way.

After all, before the accident his dad had a son who could do anything, a son who was strong and independent and who had a future full of promise. A son who could take care of him someday. The mothers in the neighborhood, sitting with their cigarettes on their front stoops while their kids played on the street, used to ask his dad "Why can't mine be like yours?". The old ladies of the neighborhood used to go crazy when they saw him and try to pinch his cheeks. They'd tell his dad that one day Matt was going to be a heartbreaker. Now, what did his dad have? He had a son who was broken, and completely dependent. Another burden that his dad had to bear. The mothers on their stoops just turned their heads away sadly now, and the old ladies said "Oh, Jack, it'll be okay. You'll see."

To his credit, Matt understood that his dad didn't want him to know, wanted to shield him from what had happened. His dad did his best to make sure that when Matt was around he was smiling, and joking with him, and putting on a front as though things were normal. But things weren't normal. And Matt could tell.

It was there in his dad's soft sighs and slumped posture. In the increasing number of bills showing up in the mailbox that stayed unopened on the kitchen counter in a stack and made his dad's heart pound when he picked them up. It was there in the way his dad pushed himself harder than ever when he practiced with opponents, and in the way he stayed up in front of the television getting drunker and drunker with each passing day. His dad thought that Matt couldn't hear the restrained sobs coming from behind the basement door. But Matt heard everything now. And there were things he wasn't telling his dad either, so Matt resolved that they could both have secrets. But it hurt.

So, one hot, sticky Sunday morning in the middle of a heat wave a few months after the accident, when Matt's dad grinned and tousled his hair and presented him with two tickets to see the Yankees play the Cardinals, Matt grinned back even though he knew they couldn't afford the expense. Because it meant that maybe, just maybe, they could pretend that things were like they used to be. They could pretend that things were normal. Matt would take what he could get.

As he changed out of his pajamas, feeling the hangers for the markers to help him tell which item of clothing was which, he got excited. With everything that had happened, he'd forgotten how much he loved going to Yankee Stadium with his dad. He had a vision in his mind of how the day would go, and it looked exactly like how every other ball game with his dad had gone before. They would take the subway to the stadium together. They would spend the walk to the subway platform and the short ride there debating their favourite players and the highlights of the season so far. And then, at the game, the best part. The food. It was a longstanding Murdock tradition to gorge on Nathan's hot dogs, and cheese fries, and giant sodas as they gasped and booed along with the crowd and enjoyed the game. It was a time to forget the empty fridge at home and the bills piling up, and to indulge. As Matt got ready, he felt a surge of hope build inside of him, remembering how much fun he and his dad used to have and thinking about the planned day.

That hope lasted him all the way out the door and until they were a block from their house. That's how long it took for the reminders that things weren't the way they used to be to settle in. A casual conversation about Matt's favourite batter turned into his father offering to throw a ball around with him, only to realize what he had said. Matt couldn't play baseball now. A change of subject, to favourite pitchers, turned sour when his father described a particular pitch in great detail and realized that Matt hadn't seen it. Matt couldn't see baseball now, either. He only had the sounds left - the announcers breathless descriptions, the roar of the crowds and the cracks of each hit accompanied by the hissing and popping of the speakers on their old TV.

When they reached the stairs to the subway platform, Matt's heart nearly beat out of his chest as he remembered what had happened the last time he had tried to take the subway since his accident. It hadn't occurred to him before in his excitement, but now he remembered the unending roar of the trains passing by, the crush of the crowd on all sides of him, everyone sweating and singing and swearing and yelling. And the way that his dad had clutched his hand so tightly because he didn't trust that Matt wouldn't accidentally walk off the platform and get hit by a train. It made him stop cold, which made his father turn and ask him if he was alright.

"I'm..." Matt stuttered, unsure what to say, "I'm fine," he finally said firmly and stepped forward. He had to do this. For his dad.

The platform was awful, especially in the stinking heat. And the subway itself rattled so much that Matt wondered if it were possible for his brain matter to shake itself out of his head through his nostrils. He thought that his dad may have asked him some questions, but he couldn't manage anything other than a nod.

Finally, they emerged back onto the street and headed towards the stadium. But the crowds didn't let up. Why had Matt not considered that they wouldn't? The noise was deafening, the hot, sticky heat of the day was making the stink disgusting, and suddenly he just wanted to cry. But he continued on. For his dad.

They took their seats and Matt sat there, so high up in the bleachers that he couldn't have seen the game anyway even if he weren't blind, clutching the radio his dad had given to him so that he could hear what was going on in one ear. As the game began and the players took the field, he tried to block out what he could but it was too much. Far too much. Sounds from all around him, hundreds of people, thousands of them, all having conversations and arguments, some of them drunk, and all of them excitable and yelling. Smells everywhere. Smells of food, and garbage, and sweat, and leather. Matt tried to hold his breath as long as he could, which just resulted in gasping breaths that made his dad look at him strangely.

"Are you having fun?" his dad asked in a way that Matt could tell meant that he knew he wasn't.

"Yep," said Matt quickly before taking a gulp of air again. His dad didn't look convinced.

"Hey, I'll tell you what," his dad said, "You hungry? I'm gonna go get us some grub, alright? I'll even spring for some milk duds, since you always used to bug me about them." He left, and Matt felt more alone than he remembered ever having felt in his life up to that point, despite the fact that he was surrounded on all sides by people who he couldn't ignore.

Finally, his dad returned. It took Matt a moment to notice. His dad's familiar scent and sound were indistinguishable from the assault happening on his senses. He was startled when his dad tapped his shoulder, and had to focus for a moment to finally distinguish the smell of hot dogs, nacho cheese and chocolate.

Handed a hot dog, Matt held it under his nose and breathed the scent in deeply, hoping that it would block the other stimuli out and smell familiar, comforting. Instead, he recoiled in disgust. It didn't smell at all like he remembered. Where once it had smelled spicy and appetizing, now he smelled a million things underneath the more familiar odour. The mustard burned his nostrils and seemed to race painfully up his sinuses, settling behind his eyes and making them water. The bun smelled stale and dusty, and the hot dog itself was meaty, like blood and sweat, but Matt detected a stinging trace of disinfectant and soap underneath it.

"You alright?" his dad asked. "What's taking you so long? Usually you polish one of them off in a second flat!"

Matt remembered why he was here. He needed his dad to be able to keep his secrets, which meant that Matt would need to keep his too. He needed things to be normal. So, he braced himself and took a bite of the hot dog.

If he had thought that the smell was disgusting, the taste was so much worse. He retched, and nearly hit his head on the back of the seat in front of them as he fell forward in his chair. His dad had to pat him on the back.

"Whoa," said his dad, "Did it go down the wrong pipe or something?"

"Uh huh," said Matt, gasping for breath and angry at himself. He realized that the hot dog wasn't in his hand anymore. He must have dropped it on the ground. Well, at least he didn't have to worry about explaining why he couldn't finish it.

"Are you sure you're okay, Matty?" his dad asked again, concerned.

"I'm okay. Stop asking," Matt said, batting away the hand checking his temperature on his forehead. To illustrate the point, he reached out and felt his dad's other arm until he found the cheese fries, and put one in his mouth quickly. He chewed determinedly, wanting to ensure that his dad didn't suspect anything. But it, too, was disgusting. The cheese tasted like burnt plastic, and the texture of the fries was mealy and moist. Finally, he swallowed, but the tastes all lingered.

His dad held the fries out towards him, assuming that he would want another. But Matt just couldn't do it. Nothing was how it was supposed to be anymore, and his rage was bubbling over. "Can we leave?" he asked.

"Yeah, of course, but what's wrong?" his dad asked.

"I just want to leave okay!" Matt yelled. "I can't take this anymore!"

His dad helped him up out of the seat. "Of course, kiddo, whatever you want," he said. As his dad took his hand to guide him out of the stadium, Matt yanked his hand away, tired of being a burden, but tripped over the feet of the people in the seats next to them instead and went flying onto their legs and finally the hard cement. "What the hell?" he heard the people next to them yelling. His glasses has fallen off his face. He sat squished in a tangle of other people's legs patting the ground with one hand looking for them, tears streaming down his face.

"Matty," his dad said, sympathy in his voice.

"I lost my glasses," he said, looking towards his dad. He could hear the people around them start to notice why he was having so much difficulty, start to see that he was blind and move to help his father find them for him.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was only moments, his dad handed his glasses to him and helped him up, and they made their way slowly out of the crowd. Once they were far enough away from other people, Matt let go of his dad's hand and unfolded his cane in front of him.

"I'm sorry," Matt said softly.

"What are you sorry for?" asked his dad.

"You know," Matt said.

"No, Matt," his dad said, "I don't think that I do. What's going on with you lately?"

"Are you serious?" Matt asked, incredulous. "I'm blind. I can't see."

His dad sighed the same sigh that Matt was used to hearing since the accident. "Obviously I know that. I just don't understand what that was back there. I thought you'd like this, going to a game. We haven't done it in a while. I figured it'd be nice to do something normal, you know?"

"But everything's not normal," said Matt. "I'm not normal. I'm broken and you can't fix me. Nobody can."

His dad reached out for Matt's hand and pulled him back to stand next to him, then put his hands on his son's shoulders.

"Don't say that. Why would you ever think that?" Matt could hear the emotion choking his dad's voice. "So you're not normal. So what? Normal's not everything it's cracked up to be. Sometimes in this life it's better to be different, to be special."

"Special?" Matt asked.

"That's right," said his dad. "And you're definitely not broken. You're the same person you were before the accident, do you hear me? Sure, maybe you can't see. But it doesn't change the important stuff. It doesn't change who you are deep down. And it doesn't change how much I love you."

"Okay," said Matt finally, worn down by the day's events. He didn't have the energy to pretend anymore.

"You wanna get another hot dog on the way home?" his dad asked. "Since you dropped the first one?"

"No," said Matt. "I'm not hungry."

His dad reached out and put a box in his free hand. "Here," his dad said. "At least have the milk duds."

Matt hesitantly reached into the box and took one out, and was thankful when it turned out that chocolate was delicious even with his sensitive taste buds. He ate them happily as they walked, thankful for the one thing he could cling to that was how he remembered it. As they walked, he reflected on the phrase his dad had used earlier. Was he really "special"? He wasn't sure, but he resolved that if his dad thought special was a good thing, then maybe he didn't have to try to be normal to keep his secrets or let his dad keep his. Maybe they could both keep believing the lie.


	2. Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt knows about sex and arousal, because he can't ignore what's going on all around him, but knowing about it doesn't mean he doesn't struggle to understand it.

By the time he hit puberty, Matt thought he knew everything there was to know about sex and attraction. He was certain that he knew more than most kids his own age, because his heightened senses allowed him a lot of access to the adult world including aspects of it that he didn't want to know about but couldn't ignore. He had heard and smelled a variety of sexual experiences happening around him, from loving consent to violent assault, from the basic to the disturbingly strange. So when other kids talked on the playground or told exaggerated stories to one another about what they had or hadn't done, Matt just laughed quietly to himself, able to recognize their immaturity and ignorance.

But just because Matt knew about sex didn't mean he understood it. He had the what, when, how and with whom, but he still couldn't quite wrap his mind around the why.

Oh, he masturbated. The bodily changes that accompany puberty were all there, and so he experimented. He knew that it felt good. But the interest in having sex with someone else, in dating or girls, just wasn't there yet. All around him, he could sense the boys his age experiencing the telltale signs or attraction and arousal, but personally he felt as though he were missing something. It was as though a key piece of the puzzle hadn't slotted into place yet.

Sometimes he suspected that it might be because he was gay. He certainly knew more about homosexuality than the nuns at St. Agnes could ever have dreamed of. So he would reach out with his senses and try to detect if he felt differently towards the other boys than the girls. He would lie back and try to become aroused in his bed at night, try to see if he pictured anything one way or the other that made a difference. But he wasn't sure. He didn't really feel attracted to anyone in particular.

He'd confessed his confusion to the priest once, but it had only served to scandalize the man. The priest wasn't able to provide any meaningful insight and had instead made Matt feel like the worst kind of sinner. "You are blessed to not have such sinful thoughts, Matthew," the priest had said. "Others should be so lucky."

One day he accidentally stumbled across a group of boys huddled together in the stairwell at school protecting something, secretive and ashamed. He realized that they had found a dirty magazine and were passing it around, excited to be looking at pictures of naked women. Listening to the boys describe the curve of the women's breasts, the depth of her tan and the length of her legs, Matt realized that maybe he had discovered the root of his problem. Maybe he couldn't get aroused or experience attraction because he couldn't see. Was that it? Was it entirely based on looks?

So he focused on his studies and his training instead, resolved to a life of quiet solitude. He tried to ignore the overheard conversations in which other boys his age bonded by ranking the girls they knew by attractiveness or telling dirty jokes. And when the calls of "Virgin!" followed him down the halls at school, he just kept walking. But it hurt. It made him feel like something was very wrong with him.

Years passed like this. Then, one warm spring day when he was sixteen, everything changed. That was the day Alice Davis kissed him.

It all happened very suddenly. He was sitting outside during lunch with his books spread out on a picnic table, running his fingers across the raised text of the pages while eating a sandwich, when she slid onto the bench next to him. He had anticipated her coming. She wore thick orthopedic shoes that made a distinctive sound when she walked, and she smelled of a cinnamon flavoured lip balm and apple shampoo. When she sat down, Matt didn't expect that she was there for him. People often joined him at the table at lunch, even if they didn't know him. It surprised him when she scooted herself over to sit very close to him, their thighs touching.

"Hey Matt," she said in a perky tone.

"Hey, Alice," Matt replied. "Did you want something?"

She giggled, a high pitched giggle which Matt knew was meant to be flirty and which had never been directed at him before. "Just this," she said, and before he had time to even register what she had said her lips were on his with a force that nearly pushed him backwards off of the bench.

The taste of the lip balm was the thing he immediately noticed, spicy and warm against his mouth. She opened her mouth slightly and he breathed in the taste of her lunch, a peanut butter and banana sandwich, but also the soda she had been drinking. But underneath that, there was something that he hadn't expected and that he didn't know how to categorize. Without thinking, he leaned into the kiss and brought a hand up to tangle itself in her hair, stroking the side of her face and then tangling a fist into the long braid that hung down her neck. He pushed his tongue into her mouth and let the taste of her overwhelm him, hormones and perfume and metal braces and toothpaste, a distinctive and vibrant interplay of sensations that deprived him of the ability to track anything else going on around him. Then, like an out of body experience, he felt his fist leave her hair and his fingertips dance down her neck before finally reaching her chest to cup her breast.

He was so wrapped up in the sensations that the hard smack that followed was unexpected and painful. It sent him flying off the bench and onto his tailbone on the grass, where he sat with is glasses askew and his cheek red and stinging as she backed away angrily. "Matt Murdock, you creep! I only wanted a kiss! What kind of girl do you think I am?" She stormed off into a nearby crowd of girls who all clucked their sympathies to her and expressed disgust under their breaths at what he'd done. Matt just sat there, completely stunned but also very aware of the fact that he was painfully aroused. Worse, the incident had drawn a crowd of onlookers who were now laughing at him. It took him a few minutes to finally compose himself before he was able to finish his lunch and pack up his books. He was late to class.

It was awkward around Alice after that. So awkward that he never got the chance to ask her why she kissed him. He wondered sometimes if it was a dare, or if she was genuinely interested in him. Later, when he thought about it, he regretted never getting to apologize for what he did. But mostly he just wanted to thank her. Because from that point on, like a switch had been flipped, Matt couldn't stop thinking about girls. He was normal, and he wasn't alone. And that was a new feeling for him.


	3. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt is used to the taste of his own blood. It tastes like absolution.

The blood dripped off of Matt's lip and into his mouth, mixing with his saliva to coat his teeth and gums, the coppery tang sticking to the back of his throat with every swallow. His tongue darted out to feel the wound, the cut stinging and deep. He let it drip, the priority being to scour his hands under the hot water until they were red and stinging, until he had washed the dark rage and despair away. Once his hands were finally as clean as he could get them, if still heavily bruised around the knuckles, he felt around the sink for the washcloth and began to put pressure on his split lip. He leaned heavily on the sink with his other arm, reflecting on the violence of the evening.

This was not his first split lip. It wasn't the first time he'd tasted the sticky saltiness of his own blood in his mouth. That had come early for him. Of course, most kids get hurt now and then. But for Matt, he really became familiar with the unique flavours of his own pain once Stick came into his life.

He remembered the way it felt to have Stick's cane smack across his face or dig into his ribs, the way the hard cement floor bruised his palms and kneecaps with each push, shove or fall, sometimes digging bits of dirt or glass into raw wounds. He remembered the feeling of blood seeping from stinging cuts, the way his swallowed wet tears sat like a lump in his throat as the insults were hurled at him. "What are you gonna do? Cry for your mommy?" Stick would yell. "Guess what, she's gone. Just like everyone else. I'm all you've got, kid, so get the hell up and give me a reason to stay!"

Stick never held back with him. He appreciated that. He never asked for pity, or even for kindness. He only wanted redemption for his part in his dad's death. He only wanted to prove that he was good enough. That he was as special as everyone had always said. That he was worthy of the gifts God gave him. So he pushed himself. He took the pain, and he took the abuse, and he looked at it as his absolution. It gave him a focus and a purpose he hadn't had before. The taste of blood was a part of that.

Eventually, Matt came to distinguish different types of wounds by their taste. A nosebleed, for example, would clog his sense of smell and keep the blood off of his tongue, resulting in a thick but less pungent dampness at the back of his throat that gurgled when he breathed. A tooth knocked out tasted rough, but also hard and so small as he rolled it on his tongue, and the blood flowed freely from his gums, drowning him in a rich metallic sweetness. But no matter the injury, the taste of his own blood always reminded him of who he was rather than who he wanted to be.

As he stood there and reflected on violence, and blood, and Stick, Matt heard his phone ring. "Foggy, Foggy, Foggy," it said. He knew that his friend would be so disappointed if he knew what Matt were doing. And Foggy would be right to feel that way.

But Matt just couldn't feel bad about the fact that he would never have to hear that little girl cry out again, or about what he had done to her father. On this particular night, the blood in his mouth tasted like a better world. He ignored the call.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a Tumblr. It can be found at http://enthusiasmgirl.tumblr.com. 
> 
> Also, I LOVE comments, especially constructive ones. They make my day and make me a better writer, so please feel free to leave some.


End file.
